a book iron-grey and chill is this that i have written, the tale of times when the passions of men were still working like a yeasty sea after the storms of the great killing. if these pages should chance to be read when the leaves are greening, they may taste somewhat unseasonably in the mouth. for in these days the things of the spirit had lost their old authority without gaining a new graciousness, and save for one man the ancient war-cry of “god and the kirk” had become degraded to “the kirk and god.”

this is the story of the one man whose weak and uncertain hand held aloft the banner of blue that i have striven to tell—his failures mostly, his loves and hates, his few bright days and his many dark nights. yet withal i have found green vales of rest between wherein the swallow swept and the cuckoo called to her mate the cry of love and spring.{viii}

who would know further and better of the certainty of these things must procure and read a cameronian apostle, by my excellent friend, the reverend h. m. b. reid, presently minister of the parish wherein these things were done, in whose faithful and sympathetic narrative they will find many things better told than i can tell them. the book may be had of the messrs. gardiner, of paisley, in scotland.

yet even in this imperfect narrative of strange events there may be heard the beating of a man’s heart, weak or strong, now arrogant, and now abased, not according to the fear of man or even of the glory of god, but more according to the kindness which dwelt in woman’s eyes.

for there is but one thing stronger in the world than the love of woman. and that is not of this world.